A Note From the Accused?

  Copyright & Information

  A Note from the Accused?

  First published in 1950

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1950-2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755123425 9780755123421 Print

  0755133943 9780755133949 Kindle

  0755134346 9780755134342 Epub

  0755145925 9780755145928 Epdf

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.

  THE TOFF …

  He’s cool …

  He’s rich …

  He’s debonair …

  He has friends in Mayfair – and friends in Bow.

  He can use a gun, or his fists, but prefers to use his wits.

  And no one in trouble, young or old, rich or poor, is ever refused the help of the Hon. Richard Rollison – alias –

  The Toff…

  CHAPTER I

  ‘THE BEST WAY TO DISAPPEAR …’

  Mellor flinched as if the pale blue paper were red-hot, dropped it and backed away as it fluttered to the threadbare carpet. The pale blue envelope, torn where he had ripped it open, quivered in his left hand. Except for this trembling, he stood still, watching until the letter settled. Even then he could read the black, block capitals.

  THE BEST WAY TO DISAPPEAR IS TO DIE

  Suddenly he screwed up the envelope and flung it across the tiny room. It hit the wall, dropped on to the unmade bed and rolled down the heap made by his red-and-white-striped pyjamas. It quivered on the edge, then fell to the floor.

  ‘I can’t stand it, I just can’t stand it any longer.’

  He read the message again; then stared at the gas fire, where the broken white mantles looked like bleached bones.

  He spoke again, as if someone had been arguing with him: ‘No, I just can’t stand it any longer.’

  His trembling stopped, he picked up the letter and looked down at it. Something like calm settled on his haggard face and his redrimmed, bloodshot eyes.

  He said: ‘I’d better get it over.’

  He laughed; and he hadn’t laughed for days. Days? He hadn’t laughed for weeks – not since dread had first cast its shadow over him, not from the moment when he had decided that he must disappear.

  It had seemed so easy, and proved so great an ordeal; and he had failed, because ‘they’ knew he was here. He didn’t know who ‘they’ were: not the police, who would come and arrest him, giving no warning, if they knew where he was. He didn’t know who had plotted his death and driven him to desperation. ‘They’ was a vague, nebulous word, describing the unknown. In less than a month they had turned him from a normal, cheerful, vigorous young man into a physical and nervous wreck.

  He had fought them by himself, because there was no one to help him; but he couldn’t fight any longer. Hunger had added the final touch of fear, and that stark message gave him the simple answer to his problems.

  He went to the window and looked out on to drab backyards of poor little houses, shrugged, turned and sat in a wicker arm-chair. It creaked and sagged. He leaned back, with his eyes closed. A piece of broken wicker scratched his neck and he shifted his position. He sat still for ten minutes. Downstairs a door banged; outside a dog began to bark. Before that letter had come the noises would have made him jump; now he was numb.

  He opened his eyes and stared at the door; he had been sitting here when the envelope had been thrust beneath it.

  He had heard no sound, until a faint rustling had made him look up. Every nerve in his body had become taut as he’d seen first the corner, then the whole envelope. Whoever had brought it had flipped it smartly when half of it was inside, making it hit sharply against the edge of the carpet.

  The messenger had crept away as silently as he had come.

  Clutched by the now-familiar choking fear, Mellor had gone to the door and unlocked it stealthily, opened it and peered out on to an empty landing and an empty staircase. Then he had returned, picked up the letter and ripped it open

  Now he wasn’t so frightened, because he knew what to do. He had been planning every detail, while sitting and thinking. The door and the window would have to be blocked somehow, to prevent air coming in and gas escaping, thus warning others in the house before he was dead. The ideal thing would be cotton-wool or gummed paper, but he had neither. A sheet or his pyjamas, torn into small strips, would serve; but that would be a laborious job and he had little patience left.

  He got up and went to the bed, pulled the grubby pillowcase off and punched the hard pillow. It wasn’t made of feathers. He took out his penknife, slit the ticking, and pulled out some dirty-looking grey flock.

  That would do!

  He grabbed a handful of flock – and nicked his finger with the knife. He stood rigid, looking at the tiny red globule that oozed up.

  Perhaps the best way to kill himself would be to cut the main artery.

  He began to tremble again.

  No, he couldn’t stand the blood spurting out. He would have to feel it drain from him, and would try desperately to stop it. Gas was the best way. Once he got used to the smell it would be easy and peaceful. He’d drop off to sleep – that was all.

  Sleep itself would be worthwhile. He had slept so little of late, moving furtively from place to place, haunted by his fear as well as hunted by unknown men. Had ‘they’ known every one of his hiding-places? Until the note had come he had believed that he was fooling them, but his
brief respite may have been part of their damnable cat-and-mouse game. That didn’t greatly matter now that he had made his decision.

  The best way to disappear was to die.

  He began to stuff the dusty flock round the side of the door, and lost himself in the task. It wasn’t difficult, but would take longer than he had hoped; pity he hadn’t some cotton-wool or adhesive tape. He almost forgot why he was doing it. The feeling of relief from unbearable tension remained, bringing with it a sense not far from exhilaration.

  Now and again the dust made him sneeze.

  In the rest of that house and outside, the people of the East End of London went about their daily round. Women hurried along dingy streets to tiny shops, traffic grumbled along the wide, sprawling main roads, smoke rose sluggishly from countless chimneys and added to the gloom of the early spring day.

  Judith Lorne sat over the drawing-board, wishing drearily that her drawings would come right. She had been both wishing and trying for hours. They weren’t right, and it was useless to take these sketches to an editor who knew exactly what he wanted. Judith also knew that; and usually she could satisfy him without great difficulty, but these were just so much waste-paper. Her fingers seemed stiff, and the pencil wouldn’t run smoothly, because every time she drew a man’s face, the man looked like Jim. She couldn’t get away from Jim. These were to be illustrations for a story in a woman’s magazine – a story with a superfine hero and a double-dyed villain – and she couldn’t make a face look heroic or villainous; only like Jim.

  The light was dull, and that didn’t help, but if the light were perfect she wouldn’t be able to do much better. She’d fought against admitting it, but since Jim had disappeared, something of her had gone. It was chiefly her power of concentration. She didn’t think she would get it back until she knew what had happened; even if it proved to be the worst, and he was dead.

  She dropped her pencil and stood up. Jim’s framed photograph, with the back towards her, stood on one side of her desk. She picked it up, and he smiled at her. That smile had done something to her from the first time she had seen it. It had gaiety, vitality – life. Zest for life had been the common bond between her and Jim from the beginning of their friendship. The friendship had grown swiftly, become much deeper, and swept them away till they were wildly in love.

  There had been five glorious months, of planning and preparation, of learning each other’s foibles, deciding when to marry, where to live, and how. They’d been so crazy that they had decided how many children to have, what sex, and what they should be called. They’d even made up a silly doggerel about them, each last line ending:

  … with Charles, Peter and Anne!

  and they’d sung it to the catchy tune of Peggy O’Neil, one or the other of them strumming on the old piano which was out of tune and had two broken wires. On the piano, in its rosewood case, was another picture of Jim – like the picture which the police had taken away.

  Jim wasn’t a murderer.

  No man who could laugh and sing and play the fool, be so earnest and grave one moment and full of gaiety the next, could kill a man in cold blood.

  Downstairs the front door banged.

  It always banged when Jim came, but of late her heart hadn’t jumped on hearing it, and she hadn’t waited for a few sickening minutes to see whether he had returned. He wouldn’t return; she had to make up her mind to that. But – there were still dreams. Or memories which had turned into dreams.

  She would seem to hear him running up the stairs, and humming Peggy O’Neil, waiting until her hand was at the door, and then bursting out: ‘With Charles, Peter and Anne.’ Then he would grab her by the waist and lift her – a trick-hold he had perfected, for she was no feather-weight. He would carry her over to the window, demanding to know what she’d been doing with her time that day and had she earned enough to keep him in idle luxury for another week?

  And there had been the times when he had walked up slowly and soberly, and been earnest and solemn, hugging her tightly, and saying: ‘Sorry, I’m a bit low today. What a mess the world’s in! Got me down rather, so I’ve come for some cheering up.’

  After a while they’d think of Charles, Peter and Anne – a panacea for all the moods of gloom.

  It was twenty-nine days since she had seen him.

  On the first she had been worried and puzzled; on the second, frantic; on the third, horrified. For the police had come and asked a great number of questions about him, and taken away a few oddments he’d left in the two-roomed flat, including a copy of the photograph. They hadn’t told her why they’d come, but they had left a man in the street to watch.

  Next day his photograph had appeared on the front page of all the newspapers. James Arden Mellor, whom the police wish to interview in connection with the Nelson Street Murder. Day after day paragraphs had appeared about him and the fact that he’d disappeared; but after a while he stopped being news and the police stopped watching her and following her about.

  Her friends and acquaintances, landlady and neighbours, no longer looked at her curiously or sympathetically or maliciously. Life went on much as it had before she had met him. But she had changed – she was older, there were times when she felt careworn and thought she looked haggard. At twenty-five! She was in love with a man she might never see again, whom the world believed to be a murderer, but—

  He wasn’t a murderer; it was fantastic nonsense, and she wouldn’t pay heed to the evidence, damning though it was.

  She caught sight of something at the foot of the door. It hadn’t been there a moment before. It looked like a piece of paper, and she could see only the corner. It was pale blue in colour, and someone was pushing it slowly beneath the door. It was an envelope – and suddenly it shot across the polished boards and struck the edge of a large rug. She stared, incredulously; and then suddenly rushed across the room and opened the door.

  She heard footsteps.

  On the landing she looked over and saw a man running down the last flight of stairs. He had a bald patch in the middle of a dark, oily head of hair. He didn’t glance up. He reached the front door, opened it and disappeared; and before she was halfway down the first flight of stairs the door banged again.

  When she reached the porch he was out of sight; the house was near a corner, which he had rounded. No one else was in the short street with the tall, terraced houses on either side.

  A car turned into the street, and she would not have taken much notice of it, except for the fact that it was a Rolls-Bentley – Jim’s idea of what a car should be. He had planned to buy one, in that wonderful world of make-believe, when he was thirty-seven – eleven years hence. It would be green and they would call it the Queen. This was green. The man at the wheel was glancing right and left, as if searching for a particular house. She noticed that he was good-looking – the kind of man one might expect to find at the wheel of a Rolls-Bentley. Then she went inside, carrying a picture in her mind of the dark oily hair and the bald spot.

  She went back to her flat, closed the door and picked up the letter. It was addressed to her in pencilled handwriting.

  She tore the letter open, heart thumping now, because whenever he was in a hurry, Jim wrote in an almost indecipherable scrawl like this. She unfolded the single sheet of pale blue paper and read:

  ‘Sorry I’ve messed things up, Judy. There’s nothing I can do now. I didn’t mean to kill him. I just felt I had to let you know.’

  CHAPTER II

  THE VISITOR

  The note was signed with a scrawl which might have been ‘Jim’, might have been almost any short name. The handwriting was shaky – not Jim’s usual swift and confident scribble; but it wasn’t that alone which made her sure he had not written it.

  She read the message again, then looked up at the photograph, which was turned towards her.

  ‘Judy,’ she said, in an odd, squeaky voice. ‘Judy!’ She gave a laugh which sounded as odd as her voice, and read the note again. ‘Judy!’ she cri
ed aloud – then started violently as the flat doorbell rang.

  She backed away.

  Jim had never called her Judy, but always – always – Punch. It had started at the moment when they’d been introduced, at a tennis-club dance – she could never remember who had actually introduced them. A casual: ‘This is Judy, this is Jim,’ and the someone had been swept away in the crowd. Smiling eyes in a smiling face had looked at her, and a merry voice had said: ‘Care to dance, Punch?’

  The doorbell rang again.

  She folded the letter, put it back in the envelope, and opened the door. She had no idea whom it might be; she felt breathless from the discovery, sensing a significance which she couldn’t yet understand – and then a tall man appeared in front of her, smiling, vaguely familiar, hatless, wearing a dark grey suit of faultless cut. His eyes held the look that had so often been in Jim’s. She felt, not realising what she felt, that she had much in common with this man; they could get along.

  ‘Miss Lorne?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name is Rollison. I do hope you can spare me a few minutes.’

  She had the letter in her hand, and wanted desperately to read it again and think about it and try to understand the significance of that ‘Judy’. She didn’t know this man; for all she knew he had come to sell her something she didn’t want. And yet—

  He stepped past her while she hesitated.

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  His smile faded and his face became grave, as he looked at her. She felt that he was assessing every feature of her face in his calm appraisal. Then he moved, easily and swiftly, but without fuss, and before she had started to close the door, he was at the window, looking out. She had a feeling that he had forgotten her – put her out of his mind because he wanted to give his attention to something else. She never got over that feeling with him; she never forgot the way he looked while standing close to the wall. If ever she wanted a model for a gay, gallant adventurer, this was the man. The features were finely chiselled, the preoccupation in his gaze was something quite new to her. His eyebrows were dark and clearly marked, the corner of his mouth that she could see was turned down.